so I went to work again.
I cried again.
It rained some more.
So tonight’s fresh hell involved Chef telling me that his visit to the dressings clinic today did not come with good news.
It’s not healing.
I mean, it was, then they changed the dressing and it stopped getting better, so now they’ve gone back to the original dressing and he has to see a plastic surgeon next week.
It appears it may need surgery.
Which will involve a skin graft.
It was around this time my head exploded.
Or blood started pouring from my ears.
And while I am wondering how well a skin graft will take in an area where a small cut wouldn’t heal because of poor circulation and subsequently ulcerated and exploded but you know, I guess that’s why the person we’re seeing is called a plastic surgeon while I am called a drama queen.
I do hope that my fellow Australians have been doing their bit and paying attention to this:
My initial thoughts:
– not enough skanky hoes
– plenty of hip hop boys with cooties
– not enough tears
– not enough footage of the crap dancers
– a tantalising smattering of chunky-thigh dancers
– disappointing lack of jazz hands
– devastating leaving-me-hollow-on-the-inside absence of nude-coloured body-stockings.
– wonderful jazz hand movement by the crazy hair judge to tell the
punter sound guy to kill the music
– who is that woman who thinks she’s Twiggy off ANTM
– a boring number of ‘I’m doing it for my son/daughter/mum/dad’